


Grief in Lorien

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2002-02-19
Updated: 2002-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn and Frodo in Lorien after Gandalf's fall into Shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief in Lorien

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first lotr fanfic, my first fanfic at all, actually.

The look Frodo gave him was almost unbearable. Unfathomable. The depths of the emotion, the understanding, was something Aragorn had never seen in mortal eyes… it was something borne of an eternity of longing, of pain… It was almost unbelievable, and yet… possible. The small figure, fragile, slight… less stable than the golden leaves that whispered in the wind above them, bore a weight, an eternity of pain… the agony of Middle-earth. On his shoulders. Around his neck. Unfathomable. Even the blood in Aragorn's veins was further removed from what he carried.

And yet the look he gave him betrayed no bitterness, no reproach at the burdens he bore - now no longer only physical - but rather … innocence. One of a child, rudely woken and searching for reason - not blame.

And Aragorn could not give it to him. The ranger stood as a statue, as if the fist around his heart had clenched his muscles to stillness while it pulsed within, hatefully, unbearably. His gaze was directed down, down, why must it always be down, where with this one above all others should be looked up at, if not equally. He found himself kneeling, as if whatever strength in his legs the forest had revived in him gave out under this pain, this grief, this unbreakable gaze the other held him in, until their faces were inches apart, and Aragorn could smell the wetness of Frodo's grief as it scored his face.

"You know…" he rasped, his voice breaking the soft music of Frodo's breathing, rising out of his gut as a creature from the depths. From a chasm. A mine.

He grimaced, and somehow his hand was there, closer even, hovering above the face so close he could feel the tickle of breath against palm.

"You know it is no fault of yours, that… Gandalf fell."

The face remained still, unmoved, and Aragorn felt the words fall themselves, mocking the leaves of the mallorn, drifting blackly to the grass.

Trembling (how was he trembling?) he spoke instead through his touch, and touched deeper, he saw, than the words that had scorched the lushness around them.

Frodo's eyes slid closed, and Aragorn's hand traced the contours of his grief, tense forehead, stark cheekbones, the fragile dark smudges below the eyes, drawn eyebrows, eyelashes like tongues… licking the ranger's fingers with tears. The lips, parted slightly as the eyes closed, were smooth (even in contrast to the skin around them) and warm under his calloused thumb, the chin tiny and tense with the tightness of the jaw.

"Frodo…" Aragorn murmured involuntarily, his throat constricting convulsively at the name. His hands slid up and back, fingers buried in the dark, curling hair, the ears cradled in the tender expanse between thumb and forefinger. The ranger closed his own eyes as his fingers met at the back of Frodo's skull. So small.

How? How could they have expected one so small, so fragile, so innocent… to bear such darkness? Such evil?

He pressed his forehead against the other's brow, feeling the fist in his chest grip tighter.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

"Shhh Strider…" tiny hands gripped his shoulders, then shifted to curl on the ranger's own rough, angular cheeks. Soft, damp eyelashes stroked his eyelids like paintbrushes as Frodo's eyes opened, blinked.

Something more tenacious than the golden leaves above them. How? Even as Aragorn had entered Lorien blindfolded, the beauty of the forest had surrounded him, embraced him, soothing his aches of heart and body, entering his soul through routes other than his eyes. And now, as he knelt, open, vulnerable, before this child-like figure, he felt himself bathed in another kind of beauty, another kind of light, of warmth, and he shivered, drawing in a breath that tasted of the other, opening his eyes to see what new brilliance stood before them.

But it was just Frodo.

Just Frodo.


End file.
